My Inconstant Moon

After my hiatus I had planned on returning to the weekly posts. As you can see, this plan has not worked out as expected. Many of my expectations have not been met. So what is the problem? I am going to go out on a limb and say that the issue is with my expectations.

The expectation that blogging would be fun.

• Blogging can be fun. The subject of your blog can dictate how fun it is to blog. Blogging about fashion or gardening or puppies might be fun. I blog about my life. My life has not approached fun in the past year. Why would blogging about it be fun? Instead it is heart wrenching and sad. At best it offers an amount of catharsis.
  
• This is my new perspective: Blogging is cathartic.

The expectation that other bloggers would welcome me into their community.

• I know that the blogging communities exist. I've seen blogHer pictures. I have felt a magnetic pull towards certain bloggers. Yet I don't feel much reciprocity. I have received some wonderful and supportive comments. I have a few people who read my blog. But I still feel as if I am screaming into the abyss. Well, am I? Yes. My writing is usually distant and not that good. No one can be expected to relate to that.
• I post sporadically. Is anyone seriously hugging their mouse, waiting in vain for me to drop another pearl of wisdom or painful episode into their reader? Hopefully not.
• Am I so desperate for a sense of connection that I'm holding my breath for comments and readers? Yes and no. I have gotten a lot of support from friends and family but very little understanding. They are usually happily married, had horrible divorces, or no children were involved... my experiences seem so foreign in my community. In Al-Anon, I get a lot of understanding and support but it's centered around a small facet of my life. When I started this blog I was drawn to the anonymity of the bloggers and immediacy of the responses. I wanted people who didn't know me to read between the lines and take me into their virtual arms. On the other hand, I am not interested in pouring my very limited energy into networking in a virtual world. The real world needs way to much of my time.
• My new perspective: I get out what I put into blogging.

The expectation that my lawyer would listen to me.

• I wanted to set up child support and custody by filing for a legal separation. My husband may be moving a few hours away to learn a new trade. He would be in another state for a few months or more. I want to make sure that my daughter sees her father even if it means that I take her there once a month and he stays with us two weeks later. They need each other and their relationship must be nurtured in a healthy way.
• Additionally, I need some financial support. I have taken over all of the bills but have only made $12,000 this year. I am becoming a budget master, have gotten a new job to keep our house and take care of my daughter, and have begun saving as much as possible for our future. Still, I could use some help. This sounds very clear cut and reasonable to me. I filled out the financial paperwork and signed a sheet attesting that the financial statements were true.
  
• My husband was served something so heinous that, when he read it over the phone, I felt sick to my stomach. He knew it wasn't what I had asked for and said that it didn't sound like me. The sheet that I had signed was attached to this nightmare. I was on the phone with my lawyer in minutes. I met with him the next day. He said that this was boilerplate language and clearly this was a case where boilerplate wasn't appropriate. I told him that this situation, my life, is hard enough. We, my husband and I, are doing the best that we can to make this family function in whatever form it takes. And that he, my lawyer, had declared war against my husband on my behalf. I received a refund for my retainer and the motion was retracted the next day.
• My new perspective: Read everything, sign nothing until it is complete, and make your lawyer repeat your intentions out loud.

The expectation that things would change in my marriage.

• They have not. My husband took heart in the retraction of the order for separation. He said we should find a couples' counselor and try counseling again. I have been the one to set up every lawyer, adviser, counselor, doctor, or professional for both of us. I said I was completely open to that but thought that he should make the arrangements. He happily agreed. Then he said that he would be at a wedding that upcoming weekend, at work all the next week but then he would call after that. It has been three weeks, no call. Last night he checked what my upcoming schedule was like but I can't get my hopes up. There is always a difference between intention and action, the talk and the walk. It's the difference that hurts. But it only hurts if I let it. Ignoring his words would only put up bigger walls and close off communication. Holding him to his words would only build up anger and resentment.
  
• My new perspective: Acknowledge the talk but only put stock in the walk.

So that's the landscape of my blogging and personal life at the moment. Sorry if you were looking for a happy post about eating sunshine and crapping rainbows, I'm not that kind of girl. But, I promise to work on my expectations and maybe I'll approach fun-ish. Do you have something that needs work?

I'd like to think of it as an experiment...

An experiment is a way to test a hypothesis. A hypothesis is usually stated in "If..., then..." form. Let's pretend that this was my hypothesis:

• If I wash a Dora the Explorer Pull-up diaper in the washing machine with a full load of clothing, then I will be late for work.

I am happy to report that the experiment was a complete success! Even more importantly, I can state that my hypothesis was totally true. If you would like to replicate this experiment just leave a comment and I can give you the details.

P.S. If you have any clue what such an experiment does to a washing machine, please leave a comment... on second thought, only if the result is, "makes you machine work better."

P.P.S. My next hypothesis to test:

• If the gel balls from a washed diaper are shaken out of articles of clothing and scooped out of the washing machine drum, then a wash and second rinse will actually clean the clothes.

I'll let you know how that experiment goes.
______________________________

Update: My second test did not go as well as the first. The second hypothesis proved to be false. No matter though! As my friend told me, "There is no progress without experimentation!" Although, I could say, "There are no gel balls with cloth diapers!" Ahhhhhhh, regrets...

Hiatus

hiatus [hahy-ey-tuhs]
–noun, plural -tus, -es, -tus.

1. a break or interruption in the continuity of a work, series, action, etc.
2. a missing part; gap or lacuna: Scholars attempted to account for the hiatus in the medieval manuscript.
3. any gap or opening.
4. Grammar Prosody. the coming together, with or without break or slight pause, and without contraction, of two vowels in successive words or syllables, as in see easily.
5. Anatomy. a natural fissure, cleft, or foramen in a bone or other structure.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My hiatus:

1. a 3 month interruption in the weekly posts for this blog.
2. a gap which can be accounted for due to changes in the life of the author.
3. a separation.
4. as in We each need to get help, by ourselves and together, if we are going to make this work.
5. Anatomy of a marriage. A fissure between the two members.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The broad emotional strokes were painted in the previous post. But there are many concrete factors that contributed to the separation. Promises made, trusts broken, affections lost, attentions unpaid, communications halted, alcoholism untreated, responsibilities shirked, priorities unordered, depression unacknowledged, family marginalized, time wasted, efforts unappreciated, debts ignored, children unloaded, and chances squandered. Things that have been allowed to find purchase in the rift between intention and action. Horrible things that have been allowed to bloom terrible flowers. I had to put on my gardening gloves and get out my pruning shears.

Last October, I pulled myself out of depression and the trap of simply existing. It was time to change the downward course of my life, of our life together. I had focused on my daughter's health and happiness because my own was suffering and I was overwhelmed by the steps I needed to take to heal. What I had failed to realize is that my daughter's life will only be healthy and happy if the members of her family are healthy and happy as well. We all needed healing. I could not force my husband to heal. He needed to take responsibility for his own mental and physical health. By the same token, only I could take control of my own well being.

The substance abuse center that had been recommended for my husband offered couple's counseling. I contacted the coordinator and made an appointment. What should have been a couple's meeting turned out to be just for me, and just as well. I have made poor choices, ignored red flags, thought foolishly and magically, and been blind to my willing participation in our roller coaster ride. I had been humbled by the problems that we were facing and knew that I did not have the answers or make the best choices. My counselor suggested Al-Anon. I went with an open mind and was met with open arms. There is a kinship and understanding in the rooms that is indescribable. "They did _____!" is met with, "That's what they did. What did you do?" The mirror is both uncomfortable and liberating. Enabling gives way to empowerment. Impotent worry gives way to positive action. There are no solutions, there are no easy answers, but there are tools to make situations better and practices to lessen personal pain. Change your outlook, change your life. It seems absurdly simple but it is also absurdly true.

Things needed to be done. Someone had to do them. No pointing fingers. No pleading for help. No procrastination. No resentment. No guilt. These simple facts of daily life exist regardless of what drama is unfolding. Suck it up and get it done. Life began to improve. The household projects were progressing. The cleaning, cooking, laundry, and gardening fell into a consistent rhythm of accomplishment instead of frustrated fits and starts. Depression started to dissipate like fog. So did the pull of the emotional roller coaster. So did the false promises of magical thinking. This is when the unraveling began.

As I stood up, woke up, my husband tried to get help. Tried, but ultimately it is not his time to change. We are different people then when we met. Our lives have evolved in many unexpected ways. We have responsibilities that must be met. Roles that must be filled. His life as he lives it is incompatible with all of the responsibilities that his role demands. He must reconcile himself with the parameters of this role and willingly accept its responsibilities. This reconciliation and acceptance is where intention and action must meet. This is a truth without blame or accusation. This is something that I cannot do for him. In April, we went to a highly recommended couple's therapist. I had been working solidly on my issues for a few months and was saddened by his defensive anger, blame, and resentments. We left with some very simple but tension releasing instructions. We were able to enjoy a nice weekend together as a family.

The following week, a disappointing event occurred. It was not the first. It was not the worst. It was simply enough. I will not demonize my husband or make a mockery of our pain by giving unnecessary details. There was no abuse or adultery. There was no dramatic explosion with soap-opera revelations. Instead, as I lay in the quiet hour between him slipping into bed and the alarm going off, I realized that I could not continue with the life we were living. I realized that it needed to change. Through calm words and large rolling tears I told him that I loved him but I did not love our situation. That we went around and around in the same sick cycle and it had to stop. The choices he was making for himself negatively affected us, his family. We had discussed this ad nauseum without resolution. No event, no matter how horrible the ramifications, was enough to make the behavior stop. He needed help. I needed help. We needed help. The help we needed was not to be found in a continuation of old routines and empty promises. We could work on our relationship after he was sober for 30 days. I did not mandate what help he should get or make any threats, I simply asked him to leave. That night we physically separated.

This sounds arbitrary but as a binge drinker he is able to avoid alcohol for as long as 3 weeks. 30 days would have given him enough time to break out of the must drink-remorse-promises-short temper-nice guy-must drink cycle of his alcoholism. Not that everything would be solved in 30 days but he could have enough perspective to at least talk with me instead of through his disease. I cannot emphasize enough that his alcoholism is not to blame for our problems. Unfortunately, it makes all of our problems worse.

I took complete responsibility (financial and otherwise) of our daughter, rental home, car insurance, and cell phones. Other than gas and food, he had no bills to pay. My hope was that this would give him a chance to get a place to stay, or perhaps, given the excellent health insurance we have, into a residential treatment facility. In the mean time, I could give my daughter the stability she needed and myself a less stressful environment in which to work on my faults. Despite this, the next few weeks were filled with anger and tears. Lashing out and acting aloof. Accusations and wild promises. I stayed resolute. Painfully, sadly, and hopefully resolute. The first therapist was abandoned. He suggested a new one and offered to make the call to set up the appointment. The call was never made. He started to go to AA and found a sponsor. He still binges every week.

He attended an intense self-help seminar over a long weekend. Although this wasn't a magical cure-all it did provide some healthy self-discovery. It broke through a lot of the tension that had been building between us. Our communication has been slow and measured but much better. Say what you mean, mean what you say, don't say it mean. In discussing our situation he said, "You make it sound like it happened all the time. It only happened once a week or so." I replied, "It usually only happens once or twice in a relationship. So why do I deserve to be treated with such little respect?" That question was not for him, it was for me, and I knew it. At another point we discussed the concept of hitting bottom. "You can't make that happen for me." I answered, "I understand that. This isn't about your 'bottom' it's about mine."

And that's the point I guess. I had reached the end of my ability to deal with the degradation of our lives. There was too much to enjoy, too much fun to be had, too much love to be shared, too many adventures to take, too many friendships to foster, to wallow in depression and misery. I thought I had a true love. I know now that I my true love can take many forms. I thought I had a family with my husband and my daughter. I know now that I have a family that will endure to the end of my days, regardless of how tangled the family tree becomes. I thought I had a life partner. I know now that I will spend the rest of my life with my husband, even if I he no longer wears the title. My responsibility is to make it the best relationship that I can. To foster the love and respect that we both deserve. To give our daughter the best that we can offer.

This was how I spent the last 3 months. What did you do?

How about a taste of my own medicine?

This post started as something else. Then something monumental and life-changing happened. Or, more accurately, I committed to something very difficult. The existing version seemed silly. It was erased. Emotional or emotionless nonsense followed. So here I am, sitting in front of this post one more time.

My intention with this blog is to share advice I have been asked for, opinions I have developed, and tidbits I have experienced. What I have recently gone through is not a tidbit. It cannot be shared in one neat entry. With this in mind, I will try and avoid trivial details. Instead, I will attempt to explain my mental process. Exorcise a few of my many demons.

Spontaneity. Adventures. Conversations. Trust.

Slowly...
Over years...
These things have slipped away...

There were discussions. Improvements followed. Then declines.
Fights.
Discussions.
Improvements.
Declines.
Fights.
Discussions.
Improvements.
Declines.
Fights.

The background rhythm to my life...
and the beat goes on...
and so does my life...
and new melodies play over this rhythm...
relationships mature...
jobs change...
friendships bloom...
babies are born...
and still this sickening rhythm goes on...

But the melodies change the priorities of the song of my life and a truly improved rhythm is required. One that is not in constant tension with the wonderful possibilities of my song.

It is my song.
It is ultimately my responsibility to change the beat.
I can no longer look to others for that change.
It comes from within.
It is true that factors affect the nature of the rhythm but the extent of the impact is in my hands.

I have had to ask tough questions:
What role have I played in creating this rhythm?
How often have I danced along?
How often have I allowed my melodies to be influenced by the pattern of this beat?

I do not like the answers. I have not liked my song. Some of the melodies are beautiful and harmonious. Too many have been allowed to become dissonant.

I wake up to a disappointingly familiar low point in the rhythm. It is not the worst but it is enough. The song is broken. My song is broken. It cannot continue as it is. There is no anger. There is no joy. There is only despair. It sounds like breaking glass.

The rhythm is stopped. The melodies continue. The beat of necessity is used to prop them up and allow the song to limp along.

The hope... and there is hope... is that the beat can be changed. Helped. Healed. Cycles broken. Hearts mended.

The fear... and there is fear... is that the beat will be allowed to end. No effort. Just pain.

The solace... and there is solace... is that families never end. They can change, rearrange, but they never truly end.

And there is love...

Love.

LOVE.

And it is worthy of the hardest work...
and I will work...
and I hope I am joined in the work...

Hope.

HOPE...

For the new. For the possibilities. For the promises.

For the love.

My Story... For Maddie...

There was blood. There was dilation. There were contractions. There was panic. There was a steroid shot. There were antibiotics. There was bed rest. There was waiting. There was water... sweet, hot, early, and terrible. Then, there was a baby. My baby...

Tubes, IVs, monitors, lights, alarms, and my precious baby in the NICU. She fought to breathe on her own, to eat on her own, to be on her own. She won.

Home. Healthy. Happy. Until she stopped breathing, stopped fighting. She was early. She didn't know that the fight wasn't over. We had to help her fight, to hold her up. We held her for months until she could hold her own.

But there are always worries. Colds, infections, coughs, and what they mean for the early ones.

But there is love... so much love. And joy... more than a heart can handle. I am better because of her. I see other families and I know that their children make them better too. The love and joy our children have given us enriches the lives of everyone we touch.

This amazing world allows us to connect to so many people on such personal levels. As I am blessed by the stories people have been generous enough to share, I realize something. Every family's story is my story and every family's story is their own.

Heather and Mike, I have followed your story for some time. Silently reliving so many experiences. Quietly smiling at all of your unique humor and creativity. Amazed at the baby girl on the screen, so much like my baby, so completely and beautifully singular.

Although our experiences at this point are so different, your lives have touched me. I am moved to leave the shadows. I am only one small voice that you have never heard before, but I join the chorus. Your daughter is loved. Your daughter is vibrant. She brings laughter to the lips and tears to the eyes of legions. Thank you for sharing a small piece of her light with us, we are all better for it.

Madeline Alice Spohr

November 11, 2007 - April 7, 2009

______________________________________________

Information about Maddie, donations to Maddie's favorite charity

(March of Dimes), helping the Spohrs, and the service and reception.

Bite your dog...

This is just a simple bit of advice about communication. So often we feel that we are being misunderstood. No one understands us. No one gets us. Maybe it's because we aren't speaking the same language. Or your language is not the same as the people listening to you. Or, more accurately, your reality, and the language that comes from it, is different from the reality of the person with whom you are speaking. Think about it. Perhaps you are misunderstood because you can't put yourself in the other person's shoes. You can't describe your reality in a way that is meaningful to them.

Enter the dog. The dog likes to play with you. You like to play with the dog. Sometimes it gets beyond fun and the fangs and claws start to hurt. You say "OW!" and Fido gnaws harder. You squeal and run away, Spot bounds after you. Your perspective: you and your lovable fur ball were playing and it got out of control. Woofer's view: They were playing with their favorite person, it got to be really fun, their person squealed happily, and started an awesome game of chase.

Watch a mother dog playing with her puppies. They enjoy playing. Sometimes it gets out of control. She handles it in a very distinct way that the puppy completely understands. She bites them. Gently but firmly on their muzzle. Play stops. Lesson learned. The mother dog speaks the same language as the puppy, obviously. But more than that, she understands the puppy's reality. She was there once herself.

Contrary to the title, I am not suggesting that you actually bite your dog, or anyone else for that matter. What I am suggesting is to think outside of your situation. Sometimes when we feel the most misunderstood it is because we have cut ourselves off from everyone else. With a little less ego and a little larger perspective it is possible to find a common language, a common reality. Use your imagination and flex your compassion, viola - understanding between co-workers, relatives, couples, generations, species, etc... A little effort with a lot of reward: better relationships and a stronger sense of connection.

On loss...

Pregnancy is amazing. It is scary, humbling, awe-inspiring, and beautiful. Pregnancy makes the future bloom with possibility and wither as well. Your dreams are manifest in every kick and heartbeat. Your fears are present in every stillness or drop of blood.

There are assurances. There are milestones. You move from one point of panic to another, adding new hopes and dreams along the way. You mark these points of progress because you no longer have to worry about being queasy and can look forward to elastic waistbands. With every step forward you are thankful to put away the concerns of the last step, because you don't have to worry about that anymore.

But sometimes you do. Sometimes you are far enough along not to worry about miscarriage, but it happens anyway. Sometimes you begin to bleed but the baby's heartbeat is strong and regular. Sometimes you try to calm the spasms but the urge to push is too strong. Sometimes your body fails you and you push that still beating heart out of you.

You hold your family close. You kiss your child. You stare in amazement at the card and pictures from the grief counselor. You touch the impossibly tiny footprints. You become angry at yourself. You become angry at everyone else who is pregnant. Everyone is pregnant. Everyone is healthy. Everyone says something nice and normal. Everything sounds crass and crazy. Everything is not okay.

It won't be okay. It never will be. But there are other milestones. Other worries. Other joys. As these dearest possibilities are lost and mourned, different futures are unfolded. Even in passing, your baby is loved and your heart will never change even though the course of your life has.